Destin
by Medicinal Biscuit
Summary: Finality; harsh, if only in its brevity. However the shock wave of my action remains. My tribute to my least favorite pairing in all of Naruto. I suppose this can also serve as an extremely biased character study if you'd prefer. SasuSaku WHAT! Oneshot


_Destin_

_4:29 p.m._

Today the rain falls sporadically, as if indecisive, sometimes coming in huge gusts and at other times fading almost to nothing. Somehow it seems like the sort of day that makes things happen- the kind of day where people break out of their usual ruts and actually _do_ something. I, however, allow myself a few more moments of doing nothing, staring blankly out the window at the water-logged landscape of suburban paradise. Drowned.

The storm lulls and I sigh with it. If I'm actually going to do this, now would be a good time so I don't get drenched on my way from the house to the car. With more than a little resignation, I slide off the worn, white comforter and walk over to the dresser, glaring with disdain at the flowers that are now brushing the tip of my nose. Pink. It's absolutely nauseating.

One by one I open the drawers, emptying them of my favorite clothes, all the garments I know you would like to keep, to sleep with at night, maybe even to cry into until they stop smelling like me, and finally pick up the same horrible powdery odor as everything else in this house. I almost hope for your sake that the memory fades just as quickly- even though I know it won't.

I may as well not spare the dramatics here, considering the situation. I slam the last drawer as hard as I can. Wood collides cleanly with wood. Finality; harsh, if only in its brevity. However the shockwave of my action remains. A tremor wracks the dresser, causing the flowers on top to tremble. If I was in that sort of mood, I guess I could have interpreted their motion as an irony. But I prefer to think of it as their way of waving goodbye.

I carry the unwieldy bundle of clothes down the carpeted stairs to my desk and shove them into my briefcase, so as not to arouse your suspicion. Not right away, at least. That's the only action I plan on taking to try and soften the blow in any manner. Maybe someday, you'll appreciate it. As I begin to turn away, I realize the rain is finally clearing up when a glint of light flashes across the glass of a picture frame. The captured scene makes me smile, if not for the reasons you'd hope.

You grin happily, looking completely, ridiculously ecstatic, as always, your bright hair brushing the clean, white fabric of my shirt. It's perfection captured by a camera; even my expression of complete indifference doesn't mar it. But that's just me, isn't it? Just what you'd expect of me. Funny, if you're so clever why did you never learn how to question that which you'd _expect_? Why did it never occur to you that you could have something _real_? But then you wanted perfection, and it's what you got. Your perspective on life is nothing more than something flat, two-dimensional that can be admired safely from behind the glass, but never actually touched. You didn't realize that glass can shatter.

I consider breaking the frame, but I realize my message would be much more poignant if I leave it intact. A little something to remember me by.

I glance out the window, realizing the sky has taken on the otherworldly green that follows a storm. Even from inside I can feel the hush in the air. This just adds to my sudden sense of being egregiously out of place. I feel as though I'm already a stranger, already intruding, and as of yet, I've still done nothing. I hear a car door slam, and with a jolt, I realize it's now too late for me to make a clean escape. I grasp the worn handle of my briefcase and watch the black birds fly through the green sky. It's eerie, surreal almost; I'm so swept up by the situation that I can almost pretend you'll stay out there forever, that you're already gone and I've started over from nothing, just as the world outside is doing now.

"Oh god, work was killer."

The first few clicks of your heels on the hardwood floor and the ungraceful thud of your handbag colliding mere seconds later herald your arrival.

"Did you have a good day off, honey? I suppose you'll be wanting a hot meal, even though you've been at home all day and I've been slaving away, earning a living and such."

You giggle, your laughter tinkling like broken glass. You deliver the lines like an actor in a sitcom, perfectly, shallowly; just blazoning clichés.

And for your next act, you mold your expression into a look of sickening concern, approaching me and laying a hand across my cheek.

"Are you alright, sweetie?"

"Fine."

Your green eyes dart back and forth, searching for something, anything in my expression. Just as they do every day. Haven't you realized it should probably be off-putting that you never find anything? You look pale, fragile, in that instant, with the dark shadows of the clouds pouring in from the bay windows, silhouetted by the sun lurking somewhere beyond, that reflect in your iridescent eyes. I realize, finally, that this might be too much for you to handle already. The least I can do is not waste time with metaphors or subtleties. It's not my intention to create illusions or false hope. That's your job.

"I'm leaving."

The words ring like a slap in the face, yet you don't even flinch. You never doubt me for a second.

There. Now you can't say I didn't warn you, you can't say this whole, ugly thing snuck up on you. It's right there, the truth, hanging on the air if you would only reach out and grab it.

"Okay, sweetie."

You lean in and brush your lips to mine. The gesture is tragically,_ tragically_ cold. "I love you," you sigh.

A pause. What could I ever say to reciprocate? Because nothing will fill that void, I bridge it, glancing at the clock, feigning impatience and a sense of being rushed.

"Goodbye," comes my abrupt response.

I turn and walk out of the house, eyes fixed firmly on the glossy hard-wood, almost sweating with anticipation for the moment your elongated shadow blends to nothing.

I get five steps from the front door before I stop, the still-fresh water of the puddles lapping at my feet. It's not too late to turn back. I survey what I would be leaving behind. The dull greenish-gray light does more justice to suburbia than the sunshine. It leaves no room for illusions. Of course in your mind, everything is probably always sunny. And in the absence of sun, you create your own image of reality.

If I cared enough, I might hope that maybe you'll learn something from me someday.

I slip into the car, slam the door and I'm off, sparing myself the platitude of one last backwards glance. There's really nothing I'd like to capture in my memory anyways.

Once almost outside the city limits, I roll down the window and fling my phone out. It doesn't matter, I'll buy a new one when I get to wherever I'm going. I wonder how long it will take you to realize I'm not coming back? I wonder if you'll ever ask yourself why I decided to destine this day as something greater than the ordinary?

Maybe for the same reason you never did.

I pass out of the last neighborhood on the very outskirts of the last few years of my life. Myriad images of mammoth white houses, perfectly butchered lawns, and palm trees distort themselves into something grotesque through the rain drops still splattered on my window. It's funny how people like you can stand back and watch everything you hold dear be twisted and changed without even noticing as your world bleaches itself to oblivion- that is, until it rains.

The last of the black clouds roll back to reveal a golden, late afternoon sun. I scowl. There it is again. I remember, actually laughing out loud at the thought, that it was your choice to move to Florida in the first place. Well I hate it. The rain only comes here after the sun blisters everything half to hell, yet no one notices how the world burns. It's sick.

Now I finally realize where I'm going. Maybe I'll head north, to New England, where the sun never shines. Where it'll be impossible to take anything for granted.

Nothing's stopping me now. Another one of your clichés comes to mind. You always told me that I can't run away from my problems. That I'll never change anything with my kind of attitude.

I drive through one last puddle, splattering filthy water all over that ridiculous mural of a tropical sun under the brightly painted proclamation of, _"Welcome to Destin!"_ It glistens as it drips down, shining weirdly iridescent; the effect completed _beautifully_ by the perfect golden light.

At least it's an accurate representation.

Never change anything_ indeed._

Well, my _dear_, I beg to differ.


End file.
